


Boojums, $2.00 a Dozen

by Delphi



Category: Hunting of the Snark - Lewis Carroll, The Sandman
Genre: Crossover, Drama, Dreams, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I don’t wish for anyone to panic,' Lucien intoned to the assembled dreams as he pulled on his boots, 'but it seems there is a Snark on the loose.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boojums, $2.00 a Dozen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/gifts).



He never tires of upending a bag of flour into the bowl and watching the powder go up like tiny ascending snowflakes. He’ll have to clean the counters—and before his assistant thinks she has to, of course—but the satisfaction is well worth it. Sugar next. The container is labelled, and he knows it from salt by sight and smell, but he cannot resist taking a few grains on his fingertip nonetheless and pressing them to his tongue for the sweet tingle. Baking powder or baking soda for leavening? The powder, he thinks, and a pinch of salt.

The whisk swirls through, sending the ingredients tumbling.

*

“I don’t wish for anyone to panic,” Lucien intoned to the assembled dreams as he pulled on his boots, “but it seems there is a Snark on the loose.”

“Panic,” Matthew croaked.

“That isn’t helpful, Matthew. There is nothing to fear.” He paused. “Provided, of course, that the snark is not a boo—”

“Panic!”

“We should merely exercise due caution in our search,” Lucien continued, loading the harpoon gun with a sharp click. And with luck, he added silently, they might take care of this little mess before their new Lordship became aware of the first staff cock-up of his reign.

*

The smell of chocolate and butter wafts through the kitchen as the double boiler bubbles gently away. He stirs them together, drawing figure-eights until the mixture gleams, thick and glossy.

The radio croons Saturday morning oldies, and he does a slow soft shoe shuffle from the burners to the cold room, singing along under his breath: “ _Whenever I want you, all I have to do is drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream..._ ”

He takes out a dozen eggs and breaks them one by one with two smart taps each. The yolks are particularly vivid today, a perfect cartoon orange that makes him smile. The mixer whirs to life, drowning out the music.

*

Where the Snark’s shadowy tentacles surfaced, dreamers sought what was just out of sight. The Bell-Man slipped through the endless hallways of a crumbling hotel behind Eunice Ng, who dreamed that she could not find the room where she had left her crying daughter.

The Bonnet Maker peered around a dusty attic where Eddie Mason, who was being married in the morning, clawed through trunk after trunk of tattered lace looking for his mother’s wedding dress.

The Barrister crouched, watchful, in a courtroom where Maria Nwokolo was riffling through her briefcase in search of her case files amidst the blank sheets of paper.

Each caught the flicker of a long shadow from the corners of their eyes, but when they turned—knife or net or noose in hand—the beast had already slithered away.

“Damn it!” Matthew cawed.

*

The eggs, milk, chocolate and butter--a fragrant pudding--whirl in the mixer as he taps in the dry ingredients a little at a time. They fall from the edge of the bowl like sand through an hourglass and sit for a moment, poised on the creamy surface before being swallowed down into the whirlpool.

It’s the Rolling Stones on the radio now, but he hums to himself over the strutting rhythm of “Satisfaction.”

_Dream, dream, dream..._

The confection transforms as the alchemy of air takes effect. He halts the mixer, and if it weren’t the very earliest hours of the morning and he were not alone, he might resist the urge to lick the beaters clean.

_*_

Lucien fired. The shadowy tendril darted into the ether as the harpoon embedded itself in the wall with a resonant twang.

The Broker, whose hat was currently between the harpoon and the wall, got back to his feet with help from the Banker. Both turned with a withering look.

“Are you certain you know how to work that thing?” the Broker asked, while Joshua Davis continued to ransack the filing cabinets for the Greenbaum account.

In a smoky gambling hall, Matthew perched on the shoulder of the Billiard-Maker as Yamamoto Isamu searched the empty pockets of his leather jacket with growing anxiety. Something flickered in the corner.

“Over here!” Matthew shouted.

*

He adds pecans and then, after some thought, a sprinkling of sea salt before rolling the dough into smooth, evenly-sized spheres between the palms of his large hands. His assistant always sighs that she doesn’t know how he does it. Her hands are warm, and she uses an ice cream scoop and a spoon to avoid ending up with chocolate-coated palms. His own hands are cold, but he doesn’t mind. It means he’s comfortable in the kitchen, with its three tall ovens pumping out heat all day.

He arranges the cookies twelve to a sheet and then opens one of the oven doors, relishing the blast of heat. He slides his experiment inside and sets the timer.

*

It happened so quickly. Lucien skidded through the high street, nearly knocking down Gatnam Singh as she searched for her car. The Butcher darted into the hat shop, cleaver in hand, and the fat, waddling Beaver peered down a manhole.

Matthew, flying high above, was the only one to see the Dream King approach—for the rest had turned at an eager cry.

“I found it!” a portly figure shouted as the Snark burst out through the toy store window in a shower of glass. A serpentine arm whipped around him, and in an instant, the dream softly and suddenly vanished away.

“Oh gracious,” Lucien murmured, his hand clenching around the gun. “It _is_ a boo—”

  


_“Halt.”_  


Dream spoke, and it was so.

*

The timer pings, and he opens the oven. The cookies smell richly of chocolate with the faintest touch of the seashore. He carefully lifts one with a spatula, examining the cracked surface and moist centre with satisfaction.

He blows on it and then takes a bite.

“Mm!”

The sound is startled from him as the cookie burns his tongue just a little. He closes his eyes, savouring as he chews. He remembers, in some part of him, the foodstuff of dreams. Beautiful and bountiful creations, the likes of which his sweet assistant pursues with every new batch of every new recipe. There is no smell in dreams, however, and there is no taste. In that other realm, beautiful sweets turn to air in one’s mouth, and neither dreamer nor dream will ever know the perfect imperfection of burnt sugar.

*

“My Lord,” Lucien began, stepping forward. He moved warily, for the Snark was frozen where it stood but was not undone. He feared it, but he feared even more than prospect of the Dream King’s vexation. “First of all, I must say I have no conception of how the creature was loosed, but rest assured I shall launch a full investigation immed—”

“Lucien. The Baker has gone.”

Lucien paused, bracing himself, and saw Matthew hop uncertainly forward. “Yes, my Lord.”

He waited for the chill—for the clouds to gather over the Dreaming and the darkness to descend.

“Oh,” Dream said quietly as he knelt beside the place where the Baker had been only moments before. His head cocked to one side, and Lucien’s shoulders slowly unwound when he saw neither moroseness there nor anger, only frank curiosity. “I wonder where.”

*

He constructs a pyramid of little cookies and inspects them with pride. Then he takes a square of card from the drawer. The sun is close to rising now, the early grey-gold glow illuminating the empty high street. His assistant will be here soon, and the customers after her, but the day has already reached its zenith for the baker.

Pen in hand, he hesitates. Names are important, of course, and today he is a whimsical mood.

The word comes to him, seemingly from nowhere, and he smiles. “ _Boojums_ ,” he writes. “ _25¢ each, $2.00 a dozen._ ”

He slides the sign and then the tray into the display window and then, humming to himself, returns to the kitchen to attend the bread.


End file.
